


Maledetta Primavera

by Zoisitechan



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Berlin will fucking return, Fix-It, Imagine your OTP, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23716687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoisitechan/pseuds/Zoisitechan
Summary: "Come in" Andrés then said, sounding less calm than he would have wanted.And he was there.Martín.Post-canon fix-it Berlermo.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 30
Kudos: 144





	1. 1%

Che resta dentro di me?  
Di carezze che non toccano il cuore  
Stelle una sola ce n'è  
Che mi può dare  
la misura di un amore  
Se per errore  
Chiudi gli occhi e pensi a me  
(*)

  
  


  
  


What happens when you get shot?

Bullets penetrate the human body at the speed of 900 mph, and it's obviously not about the hole they make. It's the damage inside.  
Even if they don't hit vital organs, they carve a cavity and cut through arteries and veins, producing internal and external blood loss.  
Frequently that's enough to produce hemorrhagic shock, organ failure and, consequently, death.  
If you're shot multiple times at once, the damage is amplificated and it's generally devastating.  
Surviving such a thing is more than just luck, it's a miracle.

Just as much of a miracle as surviving a critical illness with no known cure and a three-year life expectancy.

How many chances are there to survive _both_?  
Maybe roughly 1%.

_...And what's 1% against 99%?_

  
  


Yet, Andrés made it out alive.  
  
From the panoramic window of his hospital room in Geneva, Switzerland, he contemplated the lake outside, blue and placid and completely indifferent to the human torments.  
  
After the shooting at the Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre, the assault team had given him up for dead, an assumption consistent with the large number of bullets that had been fired at him.

However, when the coroner came to remove the body, he realized that Fonollosa was still breathing and he urgently informed the HQ.  
The Police ordered the immediate and secret transfer to the hospital in an attempt, albeit desperate, that the robber regained consciousness long enough to interrogate him about his accomplices (who in the same minutes were taking off with the money). Then they would have let him die and rot in hell.

But things developed differently: Fonollosa didn't regain consciousness. Never, in a whole year.  
He had remained in a coma and several times the hospital asked for permission to disconnect the machines that kept him alive, but that request had always been rejected.  
The matter was obviously kept under strict silence and it was known only to a few, but the robbery at the Fábrica de Moneda y Timbre had been such a blow to the Police and the Spanish authorities that even clinging to a living dead was considered better than nothing, left with no clues at all about the people in a red jumpsuit and a Dalí mask who kept the whole public glued to their tv, gathering sympathy and favor, and then disappeared in thin air.

While submitting the patient to delicate surgery and clinical examinations, the medical team soon realized that there was an underlying pathology that threatened the patient's life more than the aftermath of the shooting.  
It was a genetic, degenerative disease, for which various therapies were being studied, all of them up to that point had proved to be of little use.

Fonollosa was kept alive more because of Police's obstinacy in dealing with the case than because of real prospects for recovery, but when a doctor has to treat a patient, the only thing that motivates him is the Hippocratic oath, which means to do everything possible to save a life.  
So it was natural for the medical team to contact the Swiss pharmacological company producing the drug for that rare disease and to inform that they would activate the protocol foreseen with their drug on a patient currently in a coma and victim of a shooting.

The response of the pharmaceutical company was the proposal for a trial of a new drug not yet tested on humans.  
Those bastards had sensed the possibility of a big deal: perfecting a drug made problematic by a series of heavy side effects on a coma patient was a rare opportunity, more so without the need of any consent from the patient's relatives and completely off the records.

The most unscrupulous of their investors liked the idea very much.  
Unaware of all of this, the Spaniards agreed to administer the new drug to Fonollosa, sending weekly reports to Switzerland and continuing to take care of the rest of his severe health condition. He risked to die in many occasions but then he stabilized.

  
  


Two years later, Fonollosa ceased to be considered of any use to the investigation.

Europol had captured Aníbal Cortés, and a tortured boy would surely have been more talkative than a man in a coma.  
A clinic in Geneva then requested to transfer the patient to Switzerland and - still unofficially - the Spanish authorities consented, with the restriction that if Fonollosa had ever awakened from the coma, he would have to be extradited to Spain and sent to prison.

The drug, initially causing a series of critical heart problems, had begun to be tolerated by his body and it had even shown interesting signs of effectiveness. The Swiss, while studying the case even closer, noticed that the disease had not progressed in all those months. They could even start to believe that the cure worked even if it was too soon to tell.

  
A few months later, signs of the patient's brain activity became more and more insistent and consistent, indicating the possibility of an imminent awakening.  
However, the Swiss were careful not to notify the news to the Spanish Police as they should have done according to their agreements.  
After all, that man was a ghost, his presence in Geneva did not appear in any official record, where indeed his death was reported on the same day of the shooting.

  
The Swiss did not see in Fonollosa only the precious guinea pig for their drug testing but they also saw what in Switzerland is more protected and esteemed than anything else: a _very_ rich man.  
Fonollosa did not have the €2.4 billion euros of the robbery on him, but he had his own fortune in some Swiss banks and, once awake, he could have claimed his share of the recent money heist form his accomplices. The value of that man was therefore highly considered in Switzerland for not one, but for two reasons.

  
  


A knock at the door shook Andrés from his thoughts and the silent contemplation of the landscape.

  
" _Sì_?" he inquired, turning gracefully. He had lost weight and he looked older, but his appeal remained untouched. His hands trembled imperceptibly when they remained idle. But he was overall less debilitated than one could expect, given his medical history.

"There is a visitor here for you", the nurse announced in her cold French-Swiss accent. And she stepped aside and left, to let the man waiting outside the door pass.  
"Come in" Andrés then said, sounding less calm than he would have wanted.

And he was there.

  
_Martín_.

  
Martín Berrote. Argentinian. Engineer. Robber. Who looked precisely as Andrés remembered, aside for a 3-day stubble beard.

Martín walked through the door of an insignificant room of an insignificant clinic in an insignificant city of an insignificant country of a world that to him became insignificant, until he saw the man standing in front of him and everything regained meaning again.

  
"It's... _you_ " he whispered.

  
The two of them shared a song together.  
Actually, several songs had accompanied their many years together, but there was a particular one they sang aloud one night they got drunk together with the finest Cabernet Sauvignon.  
It was an Italian song from the early '80s titled Maledetta Primavera, which roughly translated _Cursed Spring._ The lyrics were about a woman who after a one-night stand realizes that she is emotionally involved, but also that her love is unrequited.  
They both spoke enough Italian to sing along, and Martín was particularly prone to give it all, while he knelt and sang and gestured like an Italian man.

Soon after the robbery at the Banco de España, Martín had received a message through a confidential and Interpol-proof channel.  
It was no more than a sort of chain letter, completely old-school and analog, which was linked to a simple mailbox that trusted people checked for him.  
Periodically he contacted them to find out if there were any new messages and that time the message was "Maledetta Primavera", with a simple address in Switzerland and nothing else.  
In less than two hours, Martín had already jumped on a plane.

He did not expect to find Andrés, of course.  
The Spanish Police had proven itself worthless in many ways, but the truth about Fonollosa was kept successfully secret. So much that the secret backfired and they weren't even notified that he was awake, thanks to a bunch of cunning Swiss who Andrés had already bribed for their silence.

Martín did not expect to find Andrés, but he equally didn't expect what to find at all.  
The first thought clearly was it could have been a trap, set by those who wanted to arrest him, but the reference was too specific, too personal; that song was a moment in time known only to Andrés and himself.

"You're alive... How?"  
" _Simplemente_ , I'm not dead," Andrés replied.  
"I see that, but ..."  
"I was in a coma for a long time. The Police hoped I would wake up but they got screwed. Then the Swiss brought me here because of... Well, long story."  
"You have been shot and everybody, including your little brother, believed you dead. Besides, there was your illness, which I didn't know about because you never told me, but you revealed it to the press during the money heist", Martín said bitterly.  
He spoke every single word with effort and pain. He stood there, with wet eyes and clenched fists, as if he had to keep a demeanor, when he wanted to throw himself at Andrés's feet but something held him back.  
It wasn't just the vivid memory of the last time they spoke, when Andrés had cut all ties with him and didn't want him around anymore, not even as a friend.  
No. It was the thought of all the pain Andrés had suffered without him. The thought of all the times that, if he had known him alive, he could have run to him to help him, and instead Andrés had faced hell alone because Martín wasn't there.

The idea devastated Martín and prevented him from taking a single step forward. _All this time, I wasn't there for you because I had no idea._

  
  


Martín started to cry. It wasn't just tears, it was an explosion of desperate crying, as he sank to his knees and sobbed loudly.

And Andrés walked to him and his slender and shaking fingers caressed Martín's hair fondly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*) Translation from Italian:  
> What's left of me?  
> Of caresses that don't touch the heart  
> There is only one star  
> Which can give me  
> the measure of love  
> If by mistake  
> You close your eyes and think of me
> 
> You can listen to the full song [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0tdp4nrEBAg).


	2. 99%

The lakeside terrace wasn't grand but it offered a view of the city and its surroundings from a pleasant angle.

  
When Andrés said to Martín "Do me a favor, take me away from here", Martín intended to take him to the other side of the world, but Andrés simply meant the other side of the lake.  
He had already made arrangements with the clinic to move to a private place not many miles from there, he only needed to find the right home for himself.  
And Martín just exhaled, wiped his tears, smiled and said "I'm the man for the job".

He knew what kind of place Andrés would have loved. Not the hypermodern work of some famous starchitect. Not the bourgeois dream house with the open space, the swimming pool and the HD TV room. But a two or three-storied 1920's home with multiple and complex designs. A house with a history, elegant and refined as well as casual and rustic, beautifully furnished with some chaotic and old-fashioned quirks.  
Was it an easy task? No. Did Martín find the right place? He did, in no time. In Lausanne.

Clearly, Andrés could have violated the pact with the clinic and actually escaped to the Southern Hemisphere, but truth was he did not want to, not when his life still depended on the first and so far only medical center able to provide an adequate pharmacological response to his rare disease and whose therapy was still ongoing under strict supervision.

Years back, he faced his illness with a completely different attitude: being the viveur he had always been, he chose to focus only on the present, appreciate the value of every moment, and accept the idea that his life was coming to an end much sooner than he expected. Ending up victim of a shooting, during the robbery of the century, was the "exit stage left" he planned. But from the moment of his awakening, things have changed. He had changed. An inner urge to cling to life, never felt before, made him reconsider the second opportunity that life offered him from a much more cautious point of view.

Obviously that's not how he sold it, he said he'd rather remain in Switzerland because of how enthralling it was for an unrepentant robber like him to live surrounded by banks everywhere.

Besides, even before he moved to the house, he offered a spare room to Martín. "As long as you're here, it's pointless to keep staying in hotels" he commented with his indecipherable half-smile.

Martín was ecstatic to accept the offer, but he continued to keep a low profile compared to his former self, feeling like he constantly walked on thin ice that could break at any moment because of something he could say or do.  
Andrés telling him "As long as you're here-" sounded already like a warning of his precarious position in his friend's new life and he didn't want to break the spell for any reason in the world.

Well, wasn't that what he'd always done, after all? Keep it quiet.

He didn't come forward with Andrés for ten years, he had always loved him silently. He even danced at his friend's weddings pretending to enjoy it. No, actually enjoying it, because if Andrés was satisfied than it was OK for him too.

He was content to love the most amazing man from a distance, to have the privilege to be his best friend.

In fact, it wasn't him but Sergio who pointed out Martín's worship to Andrés and the consequence was devastating: an irremediable breaking point where, in one go, Martín lost his love and his friend.

Martín could never forget that night, how Andrés wanted them to part ways and to scrape their plan, their creature. And why was that, all of a sudden?  
He didn't completely undestand. 

Andrés spoke of love and desire as if they depended on biology, as if you don't fall in love with one person but with anatomical features dictated by your DNA. As if their kisses - dear God, they kisses - were nothing. Andrés said he felt nothing.

He wanted Martín to move forward, instead od running in circles, he said.

Truth is, Martín was lost without Andrés around, his presence was essential in his life, his presence was life itself.

Still, Andrés turned his back and left, talking about love and brotherhood while he killed Martín inside, leaving him annihilated and devastated.

Martín could not understand - not at the time, not even after years when he believed Andrés was dead - the gap between the brutality of their breakup and the power of their kisses, especially when Andrés took the lead, pushed him breathless against the wall and made him melt under his lips, the firm grasp of his hand against his throat, their bodies pressed together.

After that night, Martín just wanted to die and if he didn't it was only because of alcohol, memories and the fucking biggest robbery in history; that's how he let the devastation inside him vent.  
However he was still broken.

But now...

Now Martín joined Andrés on the terrace, bringing two cups of coffee and giving one to his friend. The sky was darkening. He couldn't encourage Andrés to have a drink because wine and life-saving drugs didn't get along. Their rites had changed.  
But coffee was allowed and Martín was happy to prepare it for them both.

"So..." he smiled awkwardly for the hundredth time that day.

" _Hostia_ , Martín. You turned into a schoolgirl on her first date."

_What?_

"Where's your big mouth? You've been awkwardly silent since you came to Switzerland. Are you unable to deal with a sick man?" he remarked with a sharp smile.

" _Vaya mierda_ , Andrés. Don't say things like that."

"Then don't be so boring."

"I'm not... I'm just..." He bit his lips.  
"What about Sergio? He was delighted to know you alive, I guess. And... What about Tatiana?"

"Questions, at least." Andrés sipped some coffee.

"If you don't want to answer-" Martín said, regretting it already.

"Sergio doesn't know about it, yet. He will, in time... but only if-" Andrés looked down at his long fingers. "In time," he concluded darkly.

"Tatiana, on the other hand" he smiled almost seductively "is not a part of the picture anymore."

"I see" Martín replied in a hoarse voice. "Then... Is it only me... to know?" he looked up at Andrés. Blue eyes into dark eyes.

"So far" Andrés nodded. "But let's cut to the chase. There's an unresolved matter between us we should talk about", he placed his mug on the coffee table without losing eye-contact with Martín, who mirrored his gesture with slightly trembing hands.

"Andrés, you don't have to say anything if you don't want to." Martín walked back and forth a few times, running his hands through his own hair nervously.

"But I _do_ want. You see-" Andrés grabbed his friend's arm. "I had long afternoons to think about it."

"I shouldn't have" Martín said, raising his palms to the air. "I shouldn't have kissed you, that's it. I shouldn't have been so bold and stupid. I compromised our friendship. I just... misunderstood, at the time, what you wanted to tell me. But now I know."

"What do you know?" Andrés asked with an inquiring look.

"I'm a fucking _maricón-_ "

"Oh, please."

"But I am, that's what I am. And it was all right with you as long as it was my own business, but it turned out to be no longer good when the object of my love was you. _Fact is it's always been you since I met you._ You hate it and now I understand."

"Martín, you do not understand _una puta mierda_."

"No?"

"No."

"How is it, then?"

"When I told you that I never experienced with any woman what existed between us, it was the absolute truth," Andrés began.

"I meant the fact that we thought alike, shared similar visions on life, enjoyed the same things and we understood each other without speaking. Not to mention" Andrés smiled "that I was sure of your loyalty more than I trusted myself."

"But of course," he continued, "the relationship you intended included a further detail, which was not a negligible detail. Sex."

"Andrés..."

"I truly liked women, women's bodies. Except-"

"I know, I know" Martín interrupted him "and I don't need further explanations, I accept it, it was only that night that I believed-"

"Yes, let's go back to that night. You kissed me and I kissed you back."

"To prove that you felt nothing. To tell me that it was impossible", Martín sighed.

"And it was impossible. Because I was dying. My mitochondria carried the gene for my disease."

"I'm not sure I'm following you, now..."

"Then I met Ariadna."

"Who's that?"

"Oh. A girl with superb green eyes. A hostage at the Fábrica de Moneda y Timbre who offered her body to me, convinced to save her life that way. She believed that we would have killed off all the hostages, eventually."

"And did you have sex with her, Andrés?" Martín asked, a little disturbed.

"I did. I had to play my part in the great scene we had staged, don't you think? I even promised to marry her, because I am a despicable man. She loathed me, of course."

"Andrés..." Martín didn't know if he wanted to continue that conversation.

But then Andrés tightened his grip on his friends's arm.

"I was disgusted by myself but also by her, young and beautiful as she was. All I kept thinking about was that kiss with you. Trapping you against the wall, pressing my body against yours, Martín."

"You just didn't like one single woman, it happens, it doesn't mean you don't like women in general."

"As I just want one single man, it happens, it doesn't mean I want men in general."

 _What was that? What the fuck was that?_ Martín's brain was about to short circuit.

"Andrés, I don't... Is that - Could it possibly be the reason why you made me come me here?" Martín almost cried out.

He already made the mistake of building castles in the air and he only got pain and abandonment in return. But if he was doing the same mistake again, he couldn't help it. And he frankly didn't care.

"No" Andrés replied without any hesitation. "The reason why I made you come me here is because I wanted my best friend by my side, if he still wants to."

"Otherwise, I wouldn't be here", Martín answered fervently.

"But" Andrés continued "I wouldn't mind to kiss you now."

"I never dared to dream of it again..." Martín whispered.

Andrés asked "Then may I?"

"Like, right now?" demanded in disbelief.

Andrés genuinely laughed in response. "We waited long enough, don't you think?"

"Yes. Yes please, just-" Martín replied, without knowing what he was saying anymore. His heart raced and it almost exploded like C4.

He threw himself into Andrés's arms, lips colliding, tongue caressing tongue, body pressing body. It took their breath away.

"You're so handsome... I want to kiss every inch of your skin." Martín dared to say, after it.

"Maybe later" Andrés replied with one of his half-smiles, going back elusively into the house.

Fair enough. Martín didn't want to rush anything.

Andrés was still a mystery, even to him. Nobody really knew what he was thinking all the time, Martín included. One could only guess.

Martín could only attempt to tune into the same wavelength and, most of the time, he managed to; this was how their friendship lasted so long.

But now a new aspect or perhaps a new phase of their relationship required to tune in again to Andrés 's needs and wishes.  
It was unexplored terrain for them both, which required caution.

"You could possibly be the best plan of my life" Martín joked, reaching Andrés inside the house.

"That's because you suck as a robber." Andrés teased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.   
> I wrote this right after season 4 aired.  
> In canon, Palermo and the others are still inside the Banco de España and I have no idea about what's going to happen next.  
> Maybe they'll let all the gold literally roll outside of the building, create chaos and then escape among the crowd?  
> No idea at all. I just presume the'll made it out alive, and I really think Berlin should be brought back, because he's a magnificent character with so much potential.  
> 


End file.
